


Ergot Seeds And Specter Dust

by wickedrum



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emetophilia, Fluff, Gen, Griffins, M/M, Massage, Monsters, Potions, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23688805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedrum/pseuds/wickedrum
Summary: Set: Showverse. Turns out some potions don’t agree with Geralt’s stomach. Fits into most parts of Season 1, assuming Jaskier is travelling with Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	Ergot Seeds And Specter Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: I barely own my knickers. When I am writing, especially whump, it's mainly for my own pleasure.
> 
> Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier, mostly friendship.
> 
> I never played the game, only read one of the books, but the show is too compelling not to get involved in some way or another.  
> Fluffier than my usual.

Jaskier felt high on life. Adventures like the day’s bestowal of having seen Geralt take down a royal griffin, as well as a Pale Widow within the space of an hourglass’ single turn had always ignited the work of his muse’s into fireworks. While he no longer crooned out of consideration for the witcher’s need for rest, he was still scribbling his first hand witness account by the embers of the fire well into the night he knew he was too excited to sleep through. Having travelled with Geralt for years, the magic vibrations of the forest at night felt like home and he was relaxed into the rapture of creating. Thus the first sounds of the witcher’s moaning didn’t quite reach Jaskier’s consciousness and he only looked up at the strange occurrence of the rustling noise Geralt suddenly made, rising onto his hands and knees when he normally wouldn’t make a sound moving and the bard thought he was asleep anyway. Jaskier’s surprise grew with the witcher unceremoniously starting to spew and gag, a hand going to his convulsing belly as he did so. “Geralt! What’s wrong!” The younger man left his writing utensils by the fire and rushed over to put a hand on his friend’s back soothingly, as futile of an action as that may have been under the circumstances. 

“Hmm. Don’t.” It was the only answer available for a while. Geralt squeezed his teeth together, pushing the other traveler away, determined not to let anything else leave his stomach. 

It made Jaskier feel more worried at once, along with the unruly hair that stuck to his dear witcher’s sweaty face, with the rest of it thankfully caught in a ponytail and out of the way of the mess. “Geralt. Please.” He prompted, placing his hand on the witcher’s forehead. “No wound fever then.”

“Can’t be one. I’m not injured.”

“You mean apart from the many various gashes and sprains.”

“Hm.” The shake of the head was minute, “just fuck off.”

Jaskier knew that in normal circumstances Geralt would have belittled his usual occupational hazard related contusions and lacerations and that the fact that it wasn’t coming itself gave the bard a clue that maybe there was something to be worried about indeed. “What do you need? Should I get your bag, and another potion?” He tried to be helpful. 

Geralt’s hand flew to his mouth to clamp it and he swallowed something down that didn’t look pleasant. “No. No more potions, had enough.” He sounded very firm on that, though he barely contained the wince that had him press his palm to his belly. 

“Let me see what’s wrong,” Jaskier placed his hand there too, atop of his. It wouldn’t be the first time the monster hunter concealed or flat out denied the existence of an injury.

“I am not bleeding,” Geralt pushed him back again. 

“There are other kinds of injuries,” the singer protested. “Why are you being so difficult all the time! I’m not some random hostile villager looking to blame you for all his supernatural troubles! It’s me, your best friend in the whole wide world. Would it kill you to accept showing some vulnerability in front of me for once?” Jaskier would have been angrier if he wasn’t also concerned. 

“I do not like people worrying about me!”

“You don’t think you deserve it, is that it? I know you,” Jaskier would have continued the psychoanalysis if not for Geralt leaning forward to spit some more, his saliva gathering convulsively the more he tried to swallow it down. The approaching daybreak made it ever so obvious how pale he was getting by the minute. 

The Viscount shook his head, every part of his being wanting to reach out, do something to help. “But Geralt. Talk to me. What is going on?”

“Nothing unusual. This happens sometimes.”

“I’ve never seen it happen before to you and I’ve been around for years.”

“Well, it does, believe it,” Geralt narrowed his yellow eyes at him in indignation.

“What is it that happens?” Jaskier felt like going mad having to drag the information out of the witcher little by little. “If you don’t want me to get seriously worried and run off for a healer immediately, I would like to know now,” he emphasised, “this not normal.”

“Potions are effectively poison. Not just for humans. Away, watch out..” But it was too late. Geralt was too feeble and overtaken by cramps to be able to aim the flow of his vomit. It was mainly just clear liquid that he was expelling now, and that was what ended up on Jaskier’s knees. 

For once, the bard didn’t seem bothered by the state of his clothing. He simply reached for some leaves to clean it, “they don’t usually affect you like this,” the young man frowned, somewhat at a loss given he didn’t know how to help,“well, Geralt?” 

“They don’t. Only one of them does.”

“Then why did you take it?” 

Geralt gave him an admonishing, are you kidding-me look. “Which one is it?” Jaskier wouldn’t let it lie, “what is it for?”

“No. I’m not that stupid to tell you,” the witcher had visions of never finding forktail decoction in his bag ever again, no matter how many times he replenished it, due to Jaskier. Given that the intensity of his witcher signs increased with it substantially, it wasn’t something he could just leave out when the occasion called for it. 

It was Jaskier’s turn for a depreciative “hm. How long will this effect last?” 

“How long is a piece of string? But maybe sooner if you shut up.”

“Great. Just great,” Jaskier reached out to steady the wavering witcher, “you really don’t look that good.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t kill me,” Geralt dismissed the smarting of his belly by trying to smooth it away. 

“Want to lie back down, relax?” Jaskier was sympathetic, though somewhat relieved there was a simple explanation that didn’t sound too threatening.

“Can’t do,” the shaking strands of his white hair indicated a no as with his head bowed towards the ground, none of his face was visible, “still feel like puking.”

“So if this happened before, would you not know of something that would help?” The younger man anxiously tried to be of some assistance.

Geralt took some great big breaths before he could answer, bending forward again riddled with cramps, “to wait it out.” 

“What the . . . ? That’s a wonderful plan,” Jaskier scoffed and to his friend’s scowl he added, “I just don’t like seeing you suffer.”

“You can always just go ahead.” With those big swallows, it was obvious how much the witcher struggled keeping any remaining stomach contents down, “I’ll catch up.”

“I am not going anywhere,” the singer was offended, pulling closer, waving off Geralt’s weak attempts to stop him from providing steadying support to lean on. “If you let it out, don’t fight it, wouldn’t that make it blow over quicker?”

Geralt shook his head, against Jaskier’s shoulder this time. “I beg your pardon! Whether I puke or not, it has no effect on the stomach cramps.”

“Stomach cramps, huh?” The bard peered round to observe where the witcher held his belly and he sneaked an arm atop of it too at once. Jaskier was surprised by the way it felt. Less defined muscles, more distended, clearly contracting violently to the extent it scared the bard. To top it off, Geralt was breathing erratically and Jaskier could clearly feel the sweat seeping through his clothes. “Oh Dear Melitele!” The bard practically had to catch his faint friend and eased him down onto his lap as the witcher heaved and gagged, with nothing coming up. Jaskier’s hand moved instinctively, rubbing at the rebellious belly gently. 

The witcher moaned and went somewhat limp, his own hand falling away from his stomach. “Geralt? Hey,” Jaskier wondered if the monster hunter had maybe passed out. 

“Don’t stop that,” the grey wolf patted Jaskier’s hand on his abdomen, making it clear exactly what he wanted done. 

“Is this helping?” The troubadour felt some relief being able to provide some sort of comfort. “I’d like to know.” For more effect, he slipped his hand under the other’s shirt and gently rubbed at the bare skin, keeping the pressure somewhere between a stroke and a nudge. 

“Hmm,” Geralt showed his satisfaction with those actions by curling up round the soothing hand, “go on.”

As appeasing as the witcher’s response was, accepting the comfort provided by his friend, a jolt of panic still went through Jaskier because the reaction was not normal for the proud and self-sufficient Geralt. That and the patent cramping under his fingers was worrisome. “How much does it hurt? Tell me.”

“It hurts,” the witcher spat, not in the mood for specifications. “Can you press a little harder,” he patted the other’s hand on his stomach again, “don’t worry, you can’t press hard enough to hurt me, your arms aren’t strong enough.”

“Hm.” It was the bard who wasn’t happy with that estimation, nor with the fact that he still had no idea how much to press. But he closed his fingers into closer resembling a fist and proceeded with a motion that was akin to kneading in hopes that was maybe what the Witcher meant, something closer to a proper massage. “You think this will not make you retch again? Or is that exactly the aim?”

Geralt shook his head weakly on Jaskier’s thighs, “there’s nothing left to puke.” The witcher twisted his torso uncomfortably. 

“You don’t have much experience with illness do you?” Jaskier commented, examining him critically. Despite always being intent on keeping a solid front, Geralt looked miserable and out of his depth. 

“I do. I’ve told you, it has happened before.”

“Hmm, hmm . . . And what do you do when it does?” The bard pressed.

“Wish for luck to die?”

The bard frowned in sympathy, “let’s try something. It might help. Poets are good at this kind of thing.”

“Jaskier, I’m not in the mood for your games,” Geralt growled, “I’ve told you already.”

“It’s nothing like that, I promise,” the shorter man appeased him by rubbing his shoulder and arm with his other hand. “Concentrate on the sensation,” Jaskier traced one of the witcher’s many scars under the fabric of his shirt. “On the feeling of me being next to you. Can you feel my breathing? Slow and steady,” Jaskier himself concentrated on making it so.

“Only, I can do meditation better than you.”

“Shush! Just do it with me. In and out, together with me, at the same time as me, follow the rhythm.” 

“You talk way too much for that!” Geralt complained with a childlike temper. 

“Come on, in and out slowly,” Jaskier demonstrated, “Having good rhythm is also the role of poetry. Keep doing it while I take you to the coast.” 

“The coast is days away,” the Witcher scowled.

“Never mind that. We will go there together one day. Just recall it as if we were there. It’s childishly simple.”

“I can’t. I’ve never been there that I recall.”

“No? Really? In your long life you never got round to it? We have to go then so you can see it too! But you must’ve seen pictures or paintings. So imagine that we are walking towards the ocean, down the white sand dunes, we can hear the waves up ahead, smell the ocean spray. The air is vibrant and warm, a pleasant, cool breeze is blowing through the grass, the water is of a brilliant bright light bluish-green colour. We take our boots off so we can feel the soft powderlike, hot sand, cooling down as we get to the part the crashing waves wash up to. The beach is wide and long, we can smell the clean salty water and the beach and sit down at the edge where the waves wash up onto the sand and recede back towards the ocean....washing up to the shore and flowing back down, back and forward...we stare out long at the ever-repeating rhythm of the waves. It’s just pleasantly warm half sitting in the water, not too cold and not too hot, the mist of the ocean on our skins, the cool water providing relief from the heat. We breathe with the rhythm of waves, slowly, evenly, but feeling its power. We’re part of the order of nature. Shall we have a swim?”

“No, Jaskier!” Though Geralt’s tone was admonishing and maybe a little partial to the ridicule but it was undeniable that he was now more relaxed, stomach and all. 

“Let’s just sit here then, enjoying the sun, the waves, the warmth, the breeze.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled again, rolling off the other’s lap and sitting up on his haunches, “let’s get ready.”

The bard grinned, satisfied with his work as Geralt seemed to be more in control of his body again. “What? Take it easy, big guy.” 

“The potion’s side-effects have now passed.” 

“There’s no harm in relaxing a bit more just to make sure. I can pack up everything myself.”

“Yeah, I’m certain you’d pack up everything in a way we’d lose it on the road, or forget it right here,” the witcher started getting his bedroll into shape. As he stood though, he reached out and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, startling him. Geralt rarely got touchy-feely, especially with such a soft expression in his eyes, “thank you, Julian.”

The End


End file.
